Fiction Fargment: Final Idea

There was a flash of light and the soothing blue was suddenly there, banishing the darkness. “Look at that! I told you it would work. You mad, bro?” The victory cry was full of youthful energy that was still in the early beginnings of being ground down by the steady attrition of Father Time and Mother Bad Decisions.

“Right. Congratulations. Maybe some museum will want that thing, because it sure as Hell ain’t worth shit to us.” Here was the final destination to the erosion of enthusiasm, the voice of wisdom and experience that says “no” to just about everything and ends up being right far too fucking often.

“Yeah, you mad.” A broad smile spread across chiseled features that fell short of renaissance humanism’s perfection of man but were still worthy of admiration, a credible effort sculpted by a talented amateur. His pale blue eyes gazed into the screen of much deeper blue with a sudden and surprising intensity, impaling the ancient television, searing through it. “I’ll find a use for it, just you watch. You’re just jealous of my mad ‘rounging skills, that’s all.”
   
“There’s a real future in picking through garbage. That’s for sure.” The older man rose from the badly battered couch with some difficulty, pressing withered hands into the walls for stability, joints worn to the nub by empty pursuits loudly protesting this new verticality. Pain competed with annoyance beneath a camouflage of gray stubble and deep wrinkles. The Herculean struggle completed he let his arms fall to his sides where they dangled uselessly, like dead animals hanging in the window of a butcher’s shop. “I already sent the petition to the National Television Insurance while you were out. We’ll get a replacement in a few days and there won’t be room for that damn artifact.” Glassy gray eyes scanned from one side the apartment to the other. It was little more than a glorified corridor and even he could walk from one end to the other in a few heartbeats.  
   
“You’re a damn artifact Ellerby, but I still haven’t tossed your goofy old ass.” The younger man muttered the reply without breaking the willful gaze into the electronic equivalent of existential oblivion. “Not that they’d let me.”
   
The two men had been assigned to a term of five years together in their last “Fair and Dignified Housing” lottery. As members of Unprotected Class A they had done about as well in the blind draw as could be reasonably hoped for, although neither man would ever admit that.  
   
“You keep playing with that thing. See what it gets you. Foolishness.”

Fiction Fragment: Spy Cam

Twenty minutes and no reply. The Over Man scowled at the screen, trying to cause someone to participate in what he thought was a very well thought out thesis by exerting the power of the will. A tap of the refresh button only confirmed the failure of his mind to influence others, even if it had evolved past good and evil and slave morality. The direct mind control of White Racial Comrades over long distances was probably still a month or two away. Face-to-face it might be a different story.
   
“I’m out of here.” With that statement made to the walls, the one man einsatzgruppen switched off the computer for the first time in nearly a year. Normally when the needs of The Struggle called him away from his propaganda ministry he just set the device to sleep, but not this time. It was completely off, lights out. The weight of recent events combined with the slow traffic at New Wehrmacht Reporting had led to this unthinkable moment. He actually felt pulled toward the door, which was highly unusual to say the least. Outside lurked Israeli trained killers, ZOGbots and maybe even someone of non-European hertitage. It was a bad place, in other words. Still, he had to go. If it meant becoming the modern world’s Horst Wessel, shot down by Reaction or something, that was the price he was prepared to pay.
   
New Bremen was still in the middle of summer, specifically that part of the season where there’s no more doubt. June has its cold days and a Wisconsin September isn’t exactly clement most of the time, but here in the exact chronological center you can’t possibly come to any conclusion other than “yeah, it’s fucking hot.”
   
“It’s fucking hot.” Walter cursed to himself as a combination of back spasms and the merciless assault of solar radiation sent beads of sweat racing down a face that might be mid-thirties or mid-twenties, depending on the day and the angle and how good the light is. Right now, it might have passed for forty. It was like whatever youth remained was melting off.
   
The first stop was the post office box. Even in this day and age of miracles of wireless transmission and the full dreams of Tesla made flesh the post is still the primary source of supply and intelligence for the aspiring Savior of the West. Sure enough, the metal cubby hole was practically bursting with letters of every size, shape and condition. With practiced movements Walter easily separated the wheat from the chaff, forming a “keep” and “discard” pile on a nearby table. It was easy, mindless work which also carried the additional bonus of air conditioning and being separated by two sets of doors from the poisoned environment where the government make-workers slaved. His mood improved rapidly, as if each letter assigned to a pile also represented an infusion of energy.
   
A request from the Imperial Knights of the White Fight to come to a rally somewhere in the south: discard. A letter from a NWR supporter with a badly wrinkled ten dollar bill enclosed: keep. An offer to sign up for a credit card that gave bonus points for purchasing gasoline and airline tickers: discard. A catalogue for an adult novelty company that offered erotic films, lotions and potions, and artificial vaginas: keep.
   
By the time the process was over the White Warrior was up nearly fifty bucks and had some nice late night reading material. Not too bad. Happily whistling the Westerwald Lied he made his exit. The next stop was the local burger joint. Even the Man of Destiny is not entirely immune from ordinary appetites, after all.
   
The meal of an Emperor Burger, large fries (those fucking health cranks had finally caved in and allowed it back on the menu, no more ordering three medium servings instead) and high fructose corn syrup ambrosia was simply delicious, perhaps even more so when it’s purchased with profits made from The Struggle. It would be hard to imagine most religious conceptions of heaven offering anything better than the pure bliss delivered by these All-American staples. Rivers of wine? Virgins? Keep that, brother. Give me greasy joy on a bun with some fresh cancer-causers as a side.
   
Perhaps somehow sensing his joy The Enemy made their move. It was at this point of greatest temporal pleasure that he encountered the spies of the NWO. It all started when two men entered, at first glance too ordinary looking suits taking a power lunch or whatever those corporate fucks call it these days. Anyone else might have ignored their presence as nothing outside ordinary experience, but the trained eyes of the Wehrmacht Reporter were not so easily fooled, quickly noting features that suggested a Jewish background or possibly even some negroid admixture.

Then there was the bag, which to someone unskilled in urban recon might have been dismissed as the ordinary paper sort used to transport take-out orders. Our hero wasn’t fooled. It first drew his attention when one of the men seemed to be very carefully placing it on the table, as if making sure it was pointed in the proper direction. A receit was stapled to the bag, which to the best of his knowledge was not a standard practice of Emperor Burger. Typical government work, half-assed and with glaring errors. The final damning evidence was what appeared to be a small slit. The spy camera must be deployed behind it. This was not a kosher burger order, no sir. These men were Mossad, CIA, FBI or maybe some combination of all three.

“Stay calm, stay calm.” The Storm Soldier whispered the words like a mantra. The sweat returned in full force, even in the cool interior of the temple of poor dietary decisions. Greasy ersatz potatoes fell from trembling fingers as he realized this might be his moment of martyrdom. Would the deadly poison darts even hurt? It was impossible not to wonder.

The two tools of the oppression were talking to each other and sipping milk shakes, apparently oblivious to the deadly game they had initiated. These guys were good, that was for sure. Most of their victims probably entered the next world with no idea how they even got there. Not this time, not this time. Erik’s hand closed around his phone.

It was time for a last stand. A final swallow of ammonia treated semi-angus beef for courage, a last bit of carbonated water for essential sugars to fuel the coming fight or flight and the White man who can see the truth was up and approaching the modern day Oprichniks, his camera phone held at arms length in front of him like a cross presented against a vampire.
   
“You want to take pictures?” The plan was for the statement to be delivered like an action hero, full of righteous and manly indignation, but sad reality reduced to a barely comprehensible croaking. The two men turned and for a moment there was eye contact. “I can do it to!” The second line was closer to the platonic ideal of tough guy recitation as the first outburst had cleared most of the soda’s sticky syrup off the vocal cords.
   
With the steely resolve of a machine gunner desperately firing his last ammunition at the advancing horde he repeatedly snapped off pictures with the phone. Like undead horrors fleeing the cleansing sunlight both of The Enemy brought up there hands, making an effort to cover their faces, as if deflecting invisible blows. Seeing his opportunity, Erik pocketed the camera and dashed for the door, fully prepared to take a silenced burst from an Israeli Uzi right between the shoulder blades. Instead, nothing. Moments later he was in his well-used car, hauling ass.

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.    

Short Fiction: Gift

It was Christmas morning, back in an era where calling it as such was simply frowned upon instead of bordering on a hate crime. Erik Kramer had been waiting for this day for weeks but still managed to sleep until noon when it finally arrived. Feeding a lazy and unhealthy lifestyle always has to take precedence, even when matched against the great passions. Passions like the love of personal computing. Yeah, it’s right up there with the need for social recognition, meaningful employment and the in-out.

“Well, look who’s finally up.” His father was at the kitchen table casually reading an engineering journal as if it was one of those “guess who showed her crotch getting into a car” celebrity rags. His kind eyes glistened behind glasses that were something of an engineering feat in their own right, held together by faith and more than a little tape. It was cheaper than buying a new pair and Mr. Kramer was never one to put the needs of Big Lens ahead of his own interests. “Thought you’d want to get that computer going right away. Even I wanted to open it, but you know, proper decorum.” He emitted a burst of high-pitched laugher, but quickly regained a serious demeanor. This was an issue of importance and that was not to be forgotten.

             

“Sorry Dad, I was just real tired.” The younger Kramer began filling a bowl with a cereal that had more in common with the items found in the candy isle than the bread one. Coated on sugar glistened in the noon sunlight, reflected off the drifting snow outside the house.

            

“Well, a growing boy needs a lot of sleep. That’s what they say.” The bespectacled gaze remained fixed on a peer-reviewed article about new advances in engine tolerance. Silence, broken only by the steady crunching of a not-quite-complete breakfast now prevailed. It wasn’t long before an empty bowl clattered its way into the sink.

            

“Ok Dad, let’s pop this sucker out.” The excitement that had been barely bottled up over the past month, since the gift’s selection became official, now came in one nearly overwhelming rush. He felt light-headed, despite the ample amount of simple sugars now powering the organic machine. This was, after all, his first time. Using the school computer lab didn’t count. This time the sweet fruit of centuries of applied mathematical and electrical research was all his, to have and to hold.

            

Erik had recently turned seventeen and was working on his Junior year. It had been a year spent buried in studies, frequent visits to said computer room and more and more isolation from an increasingly irrelevant peer group. For the most part it wasn’t missed and he could easily convince himself that nothing of value was being missed by forging friendships primarily with inanimate devices, but sometimes the loneliness would creep in and start to gnaw. The solution was to retreat further. He’d started taking his lunch in the chemistry room and sometimes passed entire days without saying more than a few words to someone his age.

            

No loss, though. They were just fucking wasters and jocks and rich phonies anyways. Last year, for example, they made a hero out of a Freshman who knocked some other knuckle dragger out. Yeah, what a hero. Fuck ‘em.

Discarded plastic bags, packing peanuts and the like soon blanketed the floor of the living room like a highly unusual indoor snowfall. From these various baby-chokers emerged the various components that would provide the necessary vehicle for the journey down the amazing highway of information that was slowly emerging as something Big Business regarded as a fad with limited mainstream appeal and many from the older generation regarded as the new C.B. Radio.

             

Not his father, though. This was one of the nice things about having a tech-geek in the role of Baby Daddy. If anything he was the one struggling to keep up while Dad rattled off technical specifications as if they were statistics from a hero athlete or something. Erik was just glad to upgrade from a word processor that was little more than a glorified typewriter to a true cutting edge machine that would probably stave off obsolescence for at least six months, maybe even a year.

            

“She’s a beauty all right. You be sure to treat her like the lady she is.” The computer now occupied the place of honor formerly reserved for the King Typewriter, Mark III. With that special combination of grinding, flashing and fanning that signals the beginning of any true romance the device came to life. The day was finally here. From now on every event would be designated by whether it occurred before or after the beginning of the personal internet age.

            

It didn’t take long to get online and begin the journey down the amazing hole of technology. At some point his father left the room, but the departure went completely unnoticed. It was almost a form of the astral separation, leaving the mortal shell to become part of pure technology, no more distinction between man and machine. Dinner was replaced with a bag of chips and a bottle of carbonated sugar and even that seemed like a considerable imposition considering the importance of the techno-merger that was being consummated. By the time Erik came up for air it was eight the next morning. He noted the time, shrugged, and went back into the online life substitute.

            

A full week passed and it was time to go back to school. While other human units had stories of vacations and family and all that other flesh-n-blood In Real Life nonsense, there was only one issue of concern for the newest citizen of the online world.

            

When can I get back on the computer? Everything else dissolved into trivial unreality, if it had ever had any substance to begin with.

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.    

Short Fiction: Normalcy of Evil

A person doesn’t just stumble into becoming a serial murderer and mad bomber. On the other hand that’s almost exactly how it happens. These sort of paradoxes are both good and necessary when the issue of complete system failure within civilized human resources is addressed. In some senses there is a dramatic event horizon a person crosses, a moment where the darkness fully embraces the soul and all goodness perishes. On the other hand it’s all so fucking banal. It even starts to become very understandable and its at that point that we have to retreat back to ideas about moral Rubicons and psychotic breaks and all the rest. The banality of evil is hard enough, but the normalcy of evil? It can never be admitted if this thing we call civilization is going to have any chance of getting a second wind.

             

Nature and nurture, all the forces of the invisible but undeniable structure that supports every silly little thing that seem very important before one looks death square in the face and lets the illusion of sanity drain away. The illusions, the mythologies, they still have power even after this encounter. They creep back in and the false comforts are difficult to resist, especially in light of the alternative. The upshot of all this bullshit is that there is no single moment that defines any given human soul, just slow slides toward a direction that is probably almost completely predetermined, broken up by occasional retreats or halting inertia provided by moments of genuine happiness and connection to the world. They’re fleeting and then the steady drift toward destiny resumes.

           

He was at a bar, trying his best to both fit in and stand out all at the same time. Not easy. Conflicting bits of advice from websites that taught “game” and polite society that teaches everything but that swirled behind glazed eyes, the eyes of a toad. The half empty scotch-n-soda was held at chest level, almost like a holy cross to ward off the freaks that came out with the night, even in an idealistic suburban bubble. It took tremendous force of will to force the prop back down to waist level, where it would communicate the confidence of the pack leader, according to some half-remembered website. A warm drop of sweat slid down the side of his face. It was late summer, deep in the dog days. The press of warm bodies and the stress of having to “assume the sale” within this meat market was not helping.

             

Yeah, genetics and conditioning. Add in existing societal structures and expectations and you’ve got your holy trinity. The drink was back up in front of a quivering, moist sternum. Thirty Five years old. Happy fucking birthday. Thinning list of women who even acknowledge your existence, thinning patience, thinning hair, widening midsection, all that shit. It was time to change it. Three second approach, don’t want to be a coward or worse a beta. No turning back now, target acquired. The glass flew back to the beltline with a spastic jerk, spilling water and booze on his cool new shoes. A man sliding toward a happier future might make some crack about the alligators being hungry and giving them a drink, but he was nearly paralyzed by a combination of fear and narrowed purpose.

           

 “You ready to get out of here?” It came out as a an awkward squawk. The female target turned slightly toward the source of the unpleasant outburst, orange skin crunching itself into exaggerated disapproval. That or a catcher’s mitt with light blue eyes.

            

 “What did you say?” Just a small hint of carefree mirth peeked through the heavy weight of social rejection and it was enough to encourage that this doomed mission to pound crotch would continue to its inevitable crash and burn.

            

 “I was thinking we should get out of here.” He felt faint, light and dark and wacky signs and beer ads and bottles of all shapes and colors swirled into a hedonistic blur. Then everything focused in on that unnaturally tinted face, the face of a tanning bed angel.  

             

She laughed, but the mirth was gone now, replaced by dismissive malice. “Get lost.” A staggered retreat, more unpleasantly joyful braying as the only companion for the promised activity of getting out of there.

             

You can’t blame it on that one moment, or really any other. The first murder didn’t happen for several days and was a random victim instead of the obvious choice. It was the end of a long and lonesome road, not a sudden deviation caused by failure in love. That’s not to say that the undrained testes don’t play a major role in these sort of crimes, because they certainly do, but let’s not lose all the other complexities to simple myopia. If you want to keep it simple just blame crap nu-metal and the video game boogey man. It’s easy and no one with any real power would ever call you out for it.

             

Days passed after that failure to fire the love rocket and then there was that encounter with the human road kill, another precious soul in GOD’s image whose own pathetic path toward ruin was cut short by a merger with a tough as all Hell truck. It probably had at least some impact on the decision to start human-hunting, but it’s hard to say. Tuck that shit into a file, stamp “not otherwise specified” on it and forget it, we don’t have much more time to spend on this.

             

Then the kill. Just a blur, spraying blood, knife reflecting the moonlight, muscles aching from the effort. It might have been a minute, but it passed by in a few seconds. Back to the hole in the wall, over the toilet, the yellow yawn. Insides feeling like they’re being shredded, body shaking, consciousness lost into a vanishing point. The “I’ll never do this again, ever” of a regretful drunk, knowing full well that he inevitably would, that free will was nothing but a cruel joke at this point, that something was broken in the mind. Not even something large, not a universal joint or the like. Just one tiny part. But it was enough to compromise the entire system.

            

 Then another and another. Bomb making materials. Auto-pilot. Hurt by so few, but everyone has to pay. Humanity lost. Another interesting story for the back page of the paper. We can all shake our heads and cluck and “there but by the grace of god” and all that shit. Yeah, that’s you. 

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.  

Short Story Fragment

Just a little something for the middle of the week. More gamebooks coming on Sunday.

*     *    *    *

It was early evening, twilight, dusk, whatever you want to call that strange period that prevails for a short time between the light and dark. Mid-july, maybe the longest day of the year. I’m in the city. I’m trying to get home. It seems that particular issue comes up far too often.

You can lose track of time. The bookstore is closing at the end of the month and it was probably my last chance. A lot of it was already packed up, cardboard boxes on the floor full of yellowed pages, neat stacks of recorded thought ready to go to the dust bin, unsorted piles with colorful covers suggesting all manner of adventure on the dank insides. I got caught up sorting through it all, seeing if there might be a hidden treasure worthy on my hard-earned fed play money. I was deep in it and the time slipped by from late afternoon to the current temporal no man’s land.

I bought a few things. One was one of those social problems books, printed in an era where success still seemed like a possibly, albeit one that would require hard work and sacrifice. No one thinks like that any more, not even the true believers. We’re fucked.

Another was some sort of science fiction. I got it just for the cover, mostly. Planets and aliens and computers filling in for THE LORD, that sort of shit. I couldn’t even remember the others. It would be a big surprise, fucking holiday morning when I get home, open that mountain-climber “because it’s fucking there” backpack and find out what they are. Small pleasures, they’ll do until something better comes along.

You have to keep your eyes open. The pack attacks, the killings are nearly commonplace these days and I’m not interested in being one of the faceless victims that are quickly ushered down the memory hole with some token cluckings of disapproval. Here and there are likely suspects, peering out from between hundred-year-old buildings, thin monsters full of menace, occupying a world built by the dead and forgotten.

It’s only a few more blocks. All around cements and brick and even the occasional wood or steel. There are sirens, but I think they’re at least a mile off. You get an ear for it, like soldiers who learn to tell if that artillery shell is going to miss or if it’s time to move, to dive for that bomb proof bunker and hope for the best. That’s pretty much what I was doing too, get out of this area of danger, back to the safe haven, the enclave where nothing bad can possibly go wrong.

Coming up on a main intersection. I can see the train from here, but it’s still a fair way off. The eyes can play tricks at this time of day, like that distance distortion in the desert and that sort of shit. Don’t walk. Do anything else, but not that one particular answer. Who am I to disobey an edict delivered in unnatural glowing orange like an urban will-o-wisp? It’s a bad break, though. It means no more forward motion toward the goal and having to stand and wait, stand and be counted, noticed. Yeah, it’s already happening.

*      *     *     *

Aaron Zehner's first novel The Foolchild Invention is available now.

Thoughts on "Creeper"

If you haven't read it yet, now is the time. Part One and Part Two.

The idea for this short story was one of those lame "ripped from the headlines" deals about some guy who had made spreadsheets about his online dating and somehow got caught. That, in and of itself, wasn't especially interesting, but the amount of venom that was generated from the usual tolerant suspects intrigued me and I started wondering what the real story was. We'll probably never know, so I made one up.

The danger with this sort of "real life incident" writing is that it almost always sucks the vein rocket. The writer assumes, wrongly, that the unusual nature of the core conceit is enough to carry the story and the end result is a shaggy dog tale with no substance or heart. This is why I generally don't like drawing on "real life," as some people call it, for ideas. Ultimately, it can't do all the work for you, or even some of the work.

A good example of doing it right is "The Possessed" by Dostoevsky. Among other things it deals with a revolutionary being killed by his own group in hopes of bringing about a People Rise Up scenario. That's an interesting real life story, but it's the treatment it gets from the Russian that makes it memorable. In lesser hands that would not have been the case. It's the same way an interesting setting or a clever high concept or you liked it when it was this so you'll like my copy of it can't save poor writing. Character, humor, description...I don't always succeed, but it's always the goal.

The upshot of all this is that the narrator in "Creeper" is given a chance to be a fully realized character instead of a one-line joke that gets stretched for several pages. He's no saint, for sure, but I tried to make his motives understandable and perhaps even sympathetic. I'm trying to go deeper, look at motivations and shared humanity. Does it work? Eh, it's a free short story, who gives a fuck?

But I still think, yes, it does.

My favorite joke to write was Patriot Manufacturing moving from China to Bora Bora and causing investor panic that must be assuaged ("burp and change them" as the narrator puts it). It's absurd, ridiculous, a little insulting to our intelligence and let's be honest, completely believable. That edge where a farce has some real truth to it, that's where a lot of the best humor lies. Maybe that's the one benefit of living in a country that gets more insane by the day: the jokes get a lot easier to write.

What happens to our narrator after the story ends? It's something I've wondered about, I've even considered maybe taking concepts from this and using them in a future novel. I guess the answer is "back to comfortable anonymity after the outrage fades." Indeed, the man in the real life story has been forgotten as newer, more interesting crimes and follies have cropped up. In today's world infamy has become as difficult to obtain and just as fleeting as fame. I don't know what that says about us, but probably nothing good.

DotTeeVee will be back on Sunday, see you all then.

Aaron Zehner's first novel is The Foolchild Invention.

Part Two of "Creeper"

This is the conclusion of an original short story. If you haven't read part one, be sure to do that before reading the conclusion. I'll be posting thoughts about writing this short story next Wednesday.

*          *          *          *

I walk around like the boss. It’s been three months. The system keeps expanding, but never faster than my ability to keep it organized in that other gray computer. I’ve got it all color-coded now, which helps a lot. I’ve always considered myself to be one of those logical data-crunchers, but I think I’m discovering an artistic side. Maybe I’ll quit this paper-chase to sink crosses in piss and shit or something, haha.

            

The night before I’d obtained biblical knowledge of the fourth girl in as many weeks. I still have that fear of failure in the back of my mind, but these days all it does is make the success even more exciting than it would be otherwise. The System is just that good. I haven’t missed a name and I was only wrong about a girl being in a “save the dogs” charity one time and I just played it off like it was a joke. Yeah, this works well. I almost wonder if the time has come to share it with the world. For a fee, of course. Maybe not. Cash isn’t exactly in short supply and I like to think that there’s a certain dignity to this exercise. It’s not one of those as seen on TeeVee gimmicks.

            

I actually went to one of those “how to get girls” seminars at a fancy hotel a few years ago. Yeah. I was the youngest sucker in the room, lots of balding old bastards sweating grease and wearing gold chains over hairy chests and fat guts. All you need, Mr. Scumbag, is a few magic phrases and you’ll be getting 18-year-old pussy. That’s how it was. The pick-up expert was, of course, young and good looking. All nail polish and funny hats, which was probably just for appearances.

            

He had a lot of energy, I’ll give him that. Bouncing from one side of the room to the other like a well-manicured tennis ball, constantly firing off ideas that would help transform the human slugs packed into the room into lady killers. We were supposed to insult them. We were supposed to be arrogant and unconventional. Hold that drink by your belt, not up near your mouth! Something about clawing onto dance floors. That was the exact word, clawing. There was a ten minute intermission halfway through. I used that opportunity to leave.

            

Maybe some of that stuff had value, but it didn’t fit my own very unique and special circumstances. There’s nothing that screams “special and different” more than being one of several interchangeable suits in a randomly selected office building nearly identical to a hundred others. That’s all changed now. I’m now the dissenting voice in the wilderness, the modern rebel.

             

And I’m getting laid. A lot.

           

*          *          *          *

The only fear now, apart from the usual shit about the west collapsing when the browns rise up or some jihadan blowing up my building, is that I’m getting complacent and not pushing for even more. It’s been nearly a year since that moment of direct communication with a force that some, in their ignorance, call “God.” The spreadsheet now stretches for several full screens in both directions. From modest beginnings it now represents a Wonder of the Modern World. Logic and reason have conquered the land of emotion and frivolity and now rule over it with absolute authority. I have cut the Gordian knot, crossed the Rubicon and slayed countless boom-boom kitties.

            

I’m now some sort of Vice President. I do even less for even more. The change in my demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by the invisible wire-pullers, I guess. Better move this guy up. I’ve got a huge corner office now and I come and go as I please. The day’s work usually takes ten minutes, if that. The rest of the time is spent devising ways to take this game to the next level. The Ottoman harem has been realized. The final level, if I dare, is full-blown Ghengis Khan game. I think it’s time.

            

Maybe a year or two after that pick-up workshop I was deep in the computer dating. I was still in school, now a graduate student, and it seemed like a convenient way to meet virtuous young ladies to discuss the good and beautiful with. Maybe in theory. I wrote lots of cutesy little e-mails, shit like made-up screenplays and semi-clever poems and sent them out to likely candidates. The response was deafening silence, until finally a hot little number liked a Casablanca homage I sent her. We arranged to meet for some of that hot brown liquid. Rock and roll.

            

Long story shorter, she didn’t show. Instead the coffee house was jammed full of other men, all of whom seemed to be looking around for a special someone. Fuck, we’d been set up! Get out, abort, abort! Or just turn and leave in dejection, whatever. On the way out the door some kid of perhaps eighteen snapped a picture of me with his phone, yelled “White Knight,” and ran off through an ally.

It seems like a completely different life.

            

I was back on the train after another day of vice presidenting for those big bucks. The Ice Bitch was there. I don’t think she remembered me. I walked over and did an “opening.” It’s all a scientific process now, so totally predictable. Ask a few unexpected and unusual questions. “I’m looking for a book recommendation, what do you think would be most appropriate for me?” and “Do you ever get a little sick from the train’s movement?” All too easy. A few of those put-downs I paid $80 to learn about years ago, some light touching, follow the flow-chart, one step at a time.

            

Later I inserted my penis into her vagina.

*          *          *          *

           

Disaster! I’ve been exposed! Ok, I’ll slow down and tell it right. Like every great tragedy the mighty man was brought low by hubris. I got way too sloppy. I left everything in a vulnerable position and got found out. She must have been rooting through my things, the way women do, while I was enjoying some post-coitus oblivion. Stupid, stupid! The lap top was right there on the table, turned on even. I think the file might have even been open. It all comes crashing down.

             

Then the internet celebrity, like that fat kid pretending to be yoda and all that. Two days later and it had circled the globe, the creepy fuck with the spreadsheets full of women. The language generated wasn’t exactly of the tolerant and non-judgmental sort that is supposed to be used. E-mail box just exploded, full of angry harpies and laughing male losers who probably wish they had thought of it first, but can now bite deep into the sour grapes and savor the misery. Even the phone was going off before I shut it off. Lots of screaming, you better believe it.

            

The security guards arrived at the office today, to show me out and make sure I don’t go all American Psycho up in this bitch or something. That’s wonderful, being treated like a criminal. Clean out the drawers. They marched me out of the building. Probably would have taken even more liberties if there weren’t witnesses everywhere. On the midday train I don’t recognize anyone. They probably sense I’m an outsider. Everywhere I’m hiding from looks full of accusation and contempt.

             

The sun just went down. I’m deep into the whiskey, probably gonna really accelerate the pace now, ha, ha. I checked the e-mail one last time, just morbid curiosity, thousands of messages. One push of that delete key, see ya. Just a setback, just a setback. This too shall pass, right? The booze barely burns at all now, just slides down nice and easy.

            

My turn to use the phone, call that bitch from the train. Again, just one push of a button to do it, age of miracles. It just rings. It’s dark now. Pour another glass. Getting sent to voice mail. Got to play this one just right. Concede, but don’t actually apologize, that’s the way. My speech is slurring just a little. I tell her to get over here and bring back the disc she took. It is, after all, my property. After that we can start again, sadder and wiser.

             

The call is over. Through the window I see the city lights, dancing through the Tennessee Lenses like distant stars or that Van Gogh painting. Something like that, I’m not an artist. Tomorrow I can hide. Everything seems peaceful for the moment.

            

One final gulp.

            

I’ll find something better.

*          *          *          *

Aaron Zehner is the author of The Foolchild Invention, available now.

Part One of "Creeper"

I got the idea when I couldn’t remember her name. It was one of those moments of extreme clarity when unrelated threads come together in a surprising way, revealing a suddenly obvious answer in a flash of genius. A moment of invention and inspiration, a divine gift received from an unknown hand. I wanted to stand up and shout, to completely embrace this moment of transcendence, but this would violate the laws of semi-formal dining and obviously this was the last thing I’d ever want to do.
  
I think her name was Jenny or Jenna or some variation on that theme. If she had noticed my moment of prescience there was no outward indication, as the soft droning about a human resources career continued. In a bit of serendipity it was that very choice of topic that reminded me of my own highly stimulating employment and led to The Revelation. That was the thing: it had been right in front of my face the entire time. I guess the solution, no matter how obscure, always seems simple once it is revealed.
  
“Well?” Shit, I was expected to engage in actual human interaction with this delightful collage of legs, breast, lips and so on. Just don’t panic, that was the trick. With enthusiasm from the discovery threatening to explode at any moment into socially awkward elation I needed to play this one close.
  
“Well, people are just crazy sometimes. There’s nothing to do about it.” She made a non-committal clicking noise before tucking back into pricey, nicely arranged vittles. Kick is up, kick is good.  
  
I settled my gaze on breasts that were about 80% exposed. Yeah, that’s nice. It pulled me back into the moment, at least a little bit. Get some of that blood out of the brain. My own meal, some sort of steak mix, was growing cold, largely uneaten. Let it go, let it go.
  
She talked some more about something or other. I guess the remains of the night really have blurred down to just a few impressions. I’m almost certain I still got her name wrong at the apartment door, destroying any lingering possibility of canine postures. It didn’t even matter. With the new way, the unexpected invention, the future looked bright for the first time in a long time.

*    *    *    *
   
I was supposed to be working, but you know how it is. There’s maybe an hour of actual tasks, but it’s always spread out over eight. Client wants this, client wants that, rich old boy needs help using the big boy bathroom or is afraid a dinosaur might get him. In between these crises where they’re losing a billion dollars a second and it’s all up to me to save the day there’s the big empty. Sit behind the desk, wear uncomfortable clothes and look busy. These are the main qualifications for the new world we’re entering.
  
With a few purposeful key strokes, the vision of the previous evening began to align itself with the physical reality. The spreadsheet format was going to be perfect, that was for sure. If anything this idea was too good, as I found myself getting carried away with the amount of possible data. Keep it under control for now. You can always add more, right? It’s the taking away that’s so fucking hard. I had name fields, occupation fields, maybe a few that would track the progress of the dates. Interests? Personality? I wondered if that was even needed, what with all the similarity. Put it in the “maybe” category for now.
  
Things were shaping up nicely when a silk-clad form burst through my door. Another emergency. The Patriot Manufacturing Corp.stock was crashing. Apparently their factory in China was moving to Bangladesh or Bora Bota or something and investors were in a lather over it. It wasn’t going to lose any real value, probably come out ahead. Time to call the client, give assurances, burp him and change him. The project would have to wait.

*    *    *    *

Real progress! I had three dates with three different women last week and had no problem keeping track of all those little details like names and so on. I was actually surprised at just how easy it was, as if a small corner of my mind where the inner critic dwells still doubts the miracle, even as I’m striding over the water. That little voice of doubt has fallen silent now and for good reason.
  
It’s so easy. I just review the spreadsheet for an hour or so at the office before each night out. To an untrained eye it even looks like I’m actually doing something from the job description. The way the data is organized, it doesn’t even seem like effort to process it. Then, like magic, it’s ready at critical moments later on. I remember that she loves the little brown people or isn’t religious but very spiritual or whatever the exact bullshit is. You get the idea.
  
I was tossing these thoughts playfully back and forth on the train home when I saw the meltdown. Real scary stuff, oh yes. It’s all about a girl, of course. There’s this ice bitch that always seems to be on the same car with me when I’m heading home. You know the type, real pretty, nose either in the air or buried in a book, right in that sweet spot of life we all think is going to last forever. I tried to talk to her once, months ago, ask about the book. Yeah, I know. “What are you reading? Looks interesting,” just brutal. She didn’t even answer. Kind of turned her body to face away without actually leaving the seat. I flew solo that night.
  
Anyway, this other guy decided he’d try to solve this one piece puzzle. I missed the first part, because I was deep in the self-satisfied waking slumber, but the wailing exploding out of this guy brought me back quick. He was a college-type, all scruffy face and well-worn clothes, basically a bum but with still something to hope for and maybe slightly less fucked-up. He was getting loud. “You can at least talk to me! My mom just died last week! You fucking bitch! Bitch!”
  
That little transcript probably isn’t entirely accurate, you know poetic license and fuzzy memory and all. It’s probably not too far off. He kept yelling about female dogs and dead mothers, getting louder and louder. She just sat there like the rock of Gibraltar or something, maybe trying to chameleon into the seat, who knows. Eventually he just wore out from hitting all those high notes and got off at the next stop.
  
I guess I had a fair amount of sympathy. There but for the grace of and shit like that. I mean, he was just trying to “man up” like the television is always saying. Maybe take her out for milkshakes or ice skating but none of that will happen when no one is willing to recognize your humanity or even the fact that you’re made of matter and displacing part of the atmosphere. Then you’ll graduate and go nowhere and if you thought you were unattractive to the fairer sex now just wait until you’re a balding, impotent, under-employed forty year-old that spends every morning with a gun in his mouth and every night passed out drunk on the cheap stuff.
  
Luckily for me, I’d cracked the code. Lied my way into a decent bit of employment, put this foul-smelling foam on my melon twice a day to keep the crowning glory and pop little pills with letters on them so that blood will enter the third leg. And don’t forget the spreadsheets. I even felt a rush of inspiration, right there amongst the dregs and lost, the damned and forgotten. I popped out that lap top and got down on it.       

Well-washed hands flashed over the keypad, hammering out truth to power. “Bus Girl (name unknown). Likes: Reading, Being Left Alone. Dislikes: Being Screamed At, Being Talked to in Any Way.” Not bad, not bad at all. The motherless screamer would be avenged. By hook or by crook, I’m going to fuck that bitch.
  
And many others! Maybe even find a wife before nature really finishes me off. House and kids, fence and pies, all through the miracle of the age. Satisfied, I turned off the laptop and watched the city lights for awhile. 

*    *    *    *


The second and concluding portion will be posted next week Wednesday. My First novel "The Foolchild Invention is currently available.